


If She Were Bold

by Anonymous



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Angst, F/M, Light Smut, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Epilogue: Xenoblade Chronicles Future Connected, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The only person Melia could not be honest with was herself.
Relationships: Melia Ancient | Melia Antiqua/Dunban
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	If She Were Bold

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing something spicy...and publishing it.

The air was crisp and cold on this night but the city of Alcamoth was full of laughter and joy. After a difficult year of healing and reconstruction since returning to the capital following the defeat of the Fog King, the High Entia could collectively breathe a sigh of relief that their home once again felt like...home. Debris had been cleared, homes rebuilt, an economy and culture restored, all under the guidance and direction of the wise and determined Empress Melia Antiqua. Her people loved her and were grateful that their lives could finally return to some semblance of normalcy in the wake of the horrors and tragedy of the Telethian holocaust.

And, it was serendipitous that the traditional Winter Solstice festival coincided with the finished reconstruction efforts. The Empress had ensured that the holiday would be celebrated, pulling many all-nighters to complete plans for public celebrations. So the citizens of Alcamoth were out in the streets in full force, drifting between booths in the main square to play games and buy trinkets while sipping on hot cocoa and eggnog, ice skating on the frozen bond in the fountain of hope, or sneaking kisses under the mistletoe arches scattered across the city.

Meanwhile, in the palace, Melia was to host a dinner for her close friends and cabinet ministers that evening, a tradition originating from her great-great-great grandmother's reign. And she would not be the first to break with it.

In the privacy of her quarters, behind the closed doors of her washroom, Melia finished dressing for the evening. She ran her hands over the navy blue velvet dress that clung to her figure as she imagined what her guests would say when they saw her. It was a daring choice of dress for the Empress: off-the-shoulder with a boat neckline **,** three-quarter length sleeves, and a slit that traveled halfway up her thigh. Very revealing given her usual attire was traditional, conservative, and rarely exposing of skin.

Glancing in the floor-length mirror, she admired the emerald chandeliers that hung from her ears, accentuating the elegant length of her neck, shining against the backdrop of her silver hair that cascaded down her bare shoulders and was styled half up and half down. A matching silver necklace adorned her chest, hanging low so the emerald pendant hung right above the curve of her décolletage.

Her eyes landed on her lips, which were painted a deep red. A rather brazen red, a stark contrast to the pale pink paint she usually chose for official occasions that matched the shade dusted over her cheeks.

What would they think about her appearance?

If she were truthful, she cared less about them. There were only one person's thoughts she wished to be privy to, the person whom, if she were truthful, was the target of her outfit. She dreamed that upon her arrival in the ballroom, one look at her and he would be entranced, unable to take his eyes off her. He would make his way into her orbit, positioning himself at her side, ensuring she noticed his presence. And, at some point in the evening, before the meal was served, while the cocktails were still enjoyed, he would take her hand in his and lead her away from the guests, under the pretense of an urgent private conversation.

If she were truthful, she wished he would whisk her into the courtyard of the palace, steal her into a dark corner, and ask if he could kiss her. No sooner than her nodding would his lips collide with hers, desperate, needy, wanting to feel every inch of her mouth with his. Her heart would rocket up and down in her chest, adrenaline mixing with desire in her veins. She would return the kiss, and intertwine her fingers into his dark locks, holding his face as her lips crashed back into his. Urgent, impatient, she would kiss him once, twice, three times, only taking breaths when she had to, only parting when it was required. The air would crackle between them, electric, and he would seize her lips in his over and over again.

If she were honest, she longed for him to wrap his left arm around her and guide her backward, pressing her against the stone wall with his body. She would shudder at the collision of her body's curves and his hard, flat planes, yet her lips would still pull kisses from his, insatiable. For with each kiss, each time their mouths slanted together, the insecure and anxious chorus in her head would diminish, finally dissipating into silence. There was nothing but his mouth and taste. Nothing but him. Everything she had dreamed of and more than.

If she were honest, she yearned for his touch, his hand roaming her body, crawling from the small of her back upward to her neck, drawing unknown patterns before ghosting across her exposed collarbone, leaving each touched cell scorched with desire in its wake. Fingertips would brush across the front of her dress, tracing the outlines of her breasts and across her nipples. She would arch into his touch, aching for more and he would oblige with a low grunt that curled her toes.

If she were frank, she was desperate for his hand to move back down her body, and land on the exposed skin of her thigh that peeked out from the slit in her dress. Her pulse would quicken as it moved higher, and when the hand stilled at the origin of the slit, he would break their kiss and pull back, gazing at her with his darkened eyes. A silent question hanging in the air between them.

If she were unafraid, there was no question in her mind as to her answer. She would nod, the anticipation tightening her chest. She wanted to feel the goosebumps on her skin as his hand slid under her dress, seeking the place that desired his touch — burned for it. His lips would find hers once more as his fingertips stroked the satin of her already-damp underwear. She would gasp upon contact, and feel the vibrations of his satisfied hum against her mouth as he moved his fingers in slow circles over her sex. She'd moan with each rotation, each caress that sent shocks of pleasure up and down her body, and straight to her core. His mouth would descend to her flushed neck, and kiss and suck her warm skin — not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to make her pant and beg for more. He would oblige earnestly, sucking harder and moving his fingers faster. She would whimper and grip the fabric of his shirt in her hands, feeling herself getting wetter under his deft ministrations. He would capture her lips once more in a kiss and press his fingers a little harder on the satin, and she would cry out, her lust overwhelming every one of her senses.

If she were brazen, she would admit she wanted him to drive her into a frenzy. His fingers circling faster, his tongue in her mouth, his hips grinding into hers. The pulse between her legs pounded. She would mewl, thrusting her hips forward into his hand, desperate for release. She craved him, needed him everywhere. He would quicken the motions of his fingers and she would pant into his mouth, tugging at his hair and biting down on his lip. He would groan and his fingers would dart under the satin and stroke her bare skin, circling around the quivering bundle of nerves. A strangled moan-gasp would flood his mouth from hers and her body shuddered as her orgasm exploded through her. She would cry out his name and he would clutch her to him, still moving his fingers, eager for her to ride out the entirety of her climax.

If she were honest, she would slowly descend from her high, drag her lips from his and collapse against the stone wall, chest heaving, knees weak, arms falling limp at her sides. Gentle, he would remove his hand from under her dress and press his forehead to hers, waiting, watching, slightly uncertain. A breath or two later — sweet air filling up her lungs because she was sure she might forget to breathe — she would open her eyes and meet his hesitant ones. He would call her beautiful, then ask if she was alright. She would nod but find herself at a loss for words, uncertain how to proceed after such an intimate moment. He would avert his gaze and murmur that he had gotten carried away. He would confess that he had always found her attractive and over the past year, he had fallen for her. Between her dress and red lips, he had found himself quite undone and wanted to show her just how much he desired her. Heart pattering against her bones, she would reach forward and draw his chin and gaze back to her. She would ask if he still felt that way, to which she received an emphatic _of course_. He simply did not want her to think he was some sort of caveman who couldn't control himself under normal circumstances. She would giggle at that and he would flash his signature smirk, though she would notice the tinge of embarrassment to it. She would assure him that was most sincerely not the case, but it was delightful to know she could break his cool exterior once in a while. He would murmur he wouldn't have it any other way and would lay a loving, chaste kiss on her lips. He would sigh and suggest they return to the party; no doubt the other guests would notice her disappearance soon.

If she were truthful, she would — slightly emboldened by the encounter — suggest they skip the rest of the party and retire to her bedroom to explore more of these caveman tendencies. He would startle, asking if he had heard her right, to which she would blush and nod, though she couldn't resist teasing him that perhaps he needed to get his hearing checked. Maybe he was getting old. To that, he would joke that she was the older of the pair. With mock outrage, she would swat at him for implying she was old, and pivot, heading back towards the ballroom, announcing perhaps it was best to return to the party and forget the entire affair. He would quickly encircle her waist with his arm and pull her back to him, caress her cheek and proclaim that she was right and he was wrong and whatever could he do to apologize for his slight to his esteemed and beloved Empress. She would pretend to consider, then answer that the only way for her to know he was sincere was to witness a display of his utter devotion. And he would say in a tone that sent her heart aflutter that he would like nothing more and kissed her hand. Hand in hand they would laugh and rush back into the palace, towards her quarters, impatient to spend the rest of the night — and the rest of their lives — in each other's embrace.

But of course, Melia couldn't be truthful. She couldn't honestly entertain such fantasies. She couldn't frankly hope to provoke such a reaction from the man who had secretly been the object of her affections for the last year. It was inappropriate, it was folly, it was ridiculous. It was silly to think he would ever do such a thing and moreso, that he would ever carry such feelings for her.

Shaking herself from her reverie, she examined herself in the mirror once more. Yes, she imagined her guests would find her appearance a departure from her usual attire. It would be met with a mix of positive and negative reviews, but she was most certain the topic of discussion would transition to something else quickly. Then dinner would be served, the conversation would turn to politics and culture, and after the meal was finished, the night would come to a close and she would retire to her quarters, dress for bed, slide under the covers, and wait for the next day to dawn. Alone.

Yes, that is how the evening would proceed. She knew better than to hope for anything different.

She wiped the brazen red paint off her lips and replaced it with her usual soft, pink shade. With that adjustment, Melia glided out of her suite.

Yet, when she arrived in the ballroom and all eyes turned to her, if she were honest, she searched the crowd for him, for Dunban, and wondered what his thoughts were.


End file.
